


Tear Stains

by EmmaArthur



Series: Whumptober 2019 [13]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alex Whump, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Disabled Character, Crying, Disabilities, Hospital, Jesse Manes is a War Crime, M/M, More sad than angsty, PTSD, Trauma, Whumptober, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 23:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21044681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaArthur/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: “Tell me it's going−to get better,” Alex pleads.Michael slips a hand around the back of his neck, gently squeezing. “It's gonna get better,” he says. He doesn't quite believe it, but maybe saying it will make it true.





	Tear Stains

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober day 14: **Tear-stained**.  
(I've skipped day 13 for now because I'm so late)
> 
> This is the third instalment in the Stains series, after Mud Stains and Blood Stains, in which Alex was kidnapped by his father and tortured for days.
> 
> It's angsty and sad and bittersweet (or maybe just bitter) and I'm sorry.
> 
> [hospital, injuries, PTSD&trauma, aftermath of torture]

The hospital door is wide open when Michael gets there, and the bed is empty. He looks around the room, then down the corridor, but Alex is nowhere to be seen. He almost crashes into Liz and Maria as they come round the corner.

“Where is he?” he asks, panic rising to his throat. “Dammit, I leave you alone with him for two hours and when I come back he's gone? Was he taken for scans or something again?”

Liz frowns. “No, I don't think so. He was sleeping, so we went to get some coffee,” she indicates the Styrofoam cups in her and Maria's hands. “He's gone?”

“He's not in his room,” Michael answers, truly scared now. Alex is in no state to be anywhere but in bed, and he can't lose him again.

It's been two weeks since they found Alex at the abandoned prison, and just under three since he was first kidnapped. It's been...harrowing. Not knowing if Alex was ever going to wake up, at first, and then the string of doctors and surgeries and bad news. Michael has been living with a knot in his throat the size of a baseball ball the whole time. He'd like to say that the uncertainty is the worse, not knowing if Alex is going to get better, but it's not true. Sometimes knowing is just as bad.

Michael has lived through a moment like this once before: the certainty that the world as you know it is gone, that nothing is ever going to be the same. The first time was a hammer to his hand and Isobel's handprint on a dead body. This time, it's the sound of broken necks and the feel of Alex's body seizing in his arms.

Jesse Manes is dead−and dealing with that, and with the sudden power surge that came with killing someone, hasn't been a piece of cake−and yet Michael invariably wakes up screaming from the little sleep he gets, calling for Alex like he's still in his father's hands.

It may be because it feels like Alex isn't really back. Two weeks aren't enough for him to heal, Michael knows. A lifetime won't be enough, probably. But his Alex isn't the shell of a man lying in that hospital bed.

Or, currently, being AWOL.

“Alex!” Michael calls out in the corridor. He can't see him anywhere.

“He can't have gone far,” Liz says.

“Do you know where he is?” Maria asks the nurse who comes at Michael's shout. “He's gone.”

The nurse shakes her head. “I don't know, but Doctor Carter came earlier, after you left,” she nods at Michael. “Captain Manes was pretty distraught after that.”

Michael frowns. “You didn't see that?” he asks Liz.

“I told you, he was sleeping. Or maybe pretending to, but I didn't come close to check, I didn't want to bother him.”

“Dammit,” Michael mutters. “The wheelchair's gone, too. And−fuck, he ripped out the IV again.”

Alex's prosthetic leg is sitting against a wall, but his stump is still too raw to wear it, and walking has been out of the question anyway.

“Where could he have gone on his own?” Liz asks.

Michael starts shaking his head, but an idea comes to mind. Alex hasn't said anything, but being cooped up in the hospital, after days in a small, dark cell must be hell. And there's a small balcony at the end of the corridor. It's only used by staff and patients who need a smoke, because it's really just a large plank with a guardrail, but it's outside.

He motions for Liz and Maria to stay put, and he makes his way over to the balcony. Sure enough, there's a wheelchair there, with Alex sitting hunched over, his face in his good hand. Michael sighs. Alex somehow managed to make it all the way here with one good arm and one leg and a shot balance, and it says something about his determination. He's only wearing a hospital gown and it's winter, so he's got be cold. Michael removes his jacket, telegraphing his moves, and drapes it over Alex's legs.

Alex opens one eye to stare at him, but he doesn't move. Michael can see the tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting on the windowsill to the side, as close as he can to Alex. “I'm not going to tell you you shouldn't be out here, 'cause you already know that. Just, maybe, next time you want some air, tell me first? We could actually go downstairs to the park out back. There's even a tree.”

Michael has spent so much of the last two weeks in the hospital that he knows every inch by heart. He can't make himself leave Alex for more than a few hours at a time, so he only goes home to get a bit of sleep and shower.

“'m sorry,” Alex murmurs.

His voice hasn't come out as more than a whisper since he woke up, when it comes out at all. For the first few days, he didn't speak at all, and they feared he'd lost the ability completely. Even now speaking is a struggle, and he rarely says more than a few words at a time.

Michael internally curses Jesse Manes again, because it's the most healthy thing his head lets him do.

“Don't be,” he says. “I understand. Do you want to stay here, or do you want to go back now?”

“Stay,” Alex answers.

“Okay. I'll have to get you back if you have a seizure, though, alright?”

Alex sighs, but nods shakily. Michael bites his lip. “What brought this on?” he asks. “Michelle said you saw Doctor Carter.”

“Hm,” is all Alex answers, but Michael doesn't miss his flinch. He looks down at his right arm, finally in a real cast since the third and last surgery two days ago, instead of the torture device that was the traction equipment.

“Is is about your arm?” Michael asks.

“No. Yes,” Alex shrugs.

Michael shifts a little closer, and waits. “I can't do it,” Alex murmurs, finally.

Tears are coming down his cheeks again.

“Can I?” Michael asks, gesturing to the wheelchair.

Alex nods vaguely. Michael takes back his jacket so it doesn't fall off and drapes Alex's good arm around his shoulder to lift him out of the wheelchair, waiting until he's situated on his leg to lower him down to the bench. He doesn't let go of Alex as he places his jacket back on his lap.

Alex leans into him, shaking. He's got to be exhausted. He's terribly weak from weeks of sickness and lying down, and before that, fucking torture.

The physical damage is bad. But the brain damage makes it look like a walk in the park. Michael has seen, first hand, how hard things are for Alex now, how his emotions are all over the place−trauma and PTSD mixing with the neurological issues−, how he forgets words and people and things, how his one good hand trembles. How scared and exhausted he is by the seizures, several times a day.

“She said,” Alex starts between two sobs, his face buried in Michael's shoulder. “They've done−all they can. Too much nerve damage.”

Michael stares at his right hand coming out of the cast, claw-like and rigid. He closes his eyes, feeling his own tears join Alex's in wetting his tee-shirt.

“It's not healed yet, though, right?” he asks, sniffing. “You could still−”

“Maybe. Not much.”

Michael can't imagine it, yet. He missed Alex's injury last time, the months in physical therapy. “I can't do it,” Alex repeats. It's worse this time, he knows.

Fuck Jesse Manes.

“They'll find the right medication, for the seizures,” Michael says soothingly. “And you'll heal.”

They both know it's not true. Not really. Maybe the seizures will stop, if Alex is really lucky−though it's not looking that way. Maybe he'll regain some motion in his arm, and enough balance to walk on his prosthetic again. Maybe his memory and coordination issues will get better, enough to be independent again. Maybe.

But there are wounds that won't heal.

“I keep−_feeling_ him,” Alex murmurs.

Alex was violated _by his own father_ in ways Michael can't even imagine, and he's not coming back from that. Not easily, anyway. Not soon.

“Tell me it's going to get better,” Alex pleads.

Michael slips a hand around the back of his neck, gently squeezing. “It's gonna get better,” he says. He doesn't quite believe it, but maybe saying it will make it true.

“Whatever happens, you're not getting rid of me,” he adds, and that one is a promise.

Alex gives a small, sobbing laugh that tears Michael's heart into pieces.

Michael holds him tightly as he cries, until Alex goes rigid in his arms and starts seizing.  He calls Michelle, then, and the other nurse on call, to get him back to his room. He gives Liz and Maria a teary nod, that doesn't ease the worried frowns on their faces.

It's only when Alex is sleeping in his bed, his IV back in place, that he lets it go. He closes the door softly and slides down the corridor wall until he's sitting on the floor,  sobbing so hard he can't breathe.

Liz and Maria sit down beside him, one on each side, and cry along until Michael's tee-shirt in so wet he feels cold.

“It's gonna get better,” he murmurs, just in case repeating it could make it true.

**Author's Note:**

> The last two parts will be from Alex's point of view, and will be day 29 (Numb) and day 30 (Recovery). They should be a little more hopeful.
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts.


End file.
